Michael Meets Mozart

"Actually," Jihoon said, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the piano bench as he tried to explain his vision, "I don't think we need to worry about which instrument represents who."

"That's not really the point. This isn't a music theory exercise—it's more like… a conversation."

"One that crosses time and space."

Yoonjung tilted her head, listening.

"The lightness of the piano, the depth of the cello—they're like two completely different personalities."

"What I'm aiming for isn't a contrast between classical and pop instruments, but a fusion of melodies. A dialogue, not a debate."

A small silence followed, thoughtful rather than awkward.

"I get it," Yoonjung said softly, giving a slight nod. "I'll give it a try."

And with that, they fell into a quiet, focused rhythm. No need for small talk—just the sound of strings and keys, the occasional pause, the scribble of notes, the tapping of feet.

Though neither of them were music majors, their natural talents, sharpened by years of adjacent creative work, filled the room with possibility.

Jihoon had promised her earlier that he wouldn't be too invested in the performance. "Just something simple," he'd said. "Let's not overthink it."

But now, sitting here, sketching out melodic fragments, letting ideas spiral and evolve—he couldn't help himself.

This was the part he loved, the creative storm, the chase of an idea until it bloomed into something real.

Just like filmmaking. The medium was different, but the thrill was the same.

By the time Yoonjung glanced up, the sky outside the classroom windows had gone completely dark.

She checked her watch. Past 7 p.m.

"Whoa," Jihoon muttered, rubbing his temples and glancing toward the window. "It's already dark?"

Yoonjung simply nodded, stretching her arms with a quiet yawn.

Jihoon turned to her, hesitating for a moment before asking, "Do you… live in the dorms? I mean, if you want, I can walk you back."

Yoonjung blinked, her eyes narrowing just slightly. There was a beat of silence.

She looked at him—really looked—and Jihoon felt like he was being scanned. It wasn't suspicion exactly, but something closer to skepticism. Or disappointment?

Jihoon suddenly felt like he'd said something wrong. Maybe she thought he had an ulterior motive?

"N-no worries!" he said quickly, scratching the back of his neck and backing toward the door. "You've helped a lot already, I'll head out first—"

"Just take me to the bus stop," Yoonjung cut in, her voice clipped and colder than before.

Jihoon blinked. "Oh—uh, yeah! Of course. It's no trouble. You've already stayed late to help me, after all."

She didn't reply. Just slung her backpack over one shoulder and walked out of the room, not waiting for him to catch up.

Jihoon followed behind, slightly confused by the shift in her mood. What had he missed? One minute they were working together smoothly, and the next… frost.

He stayed quiet, trying not to make it worse, walking a respectful step behind her.

In truth, Yoonjung was annoyed—not with him exactly, but with how dense he could be. She hadn't stayed this late just for fun.

She was half-hoping he'd pick up on the hint, maybe ask her to grab a bite together, or walk a little slower so they could talk.

But Jihoon, oblivious as always, had missed the signal entirely. And she had too much pride to spell it out.

When they reached the bus stop, Yoonjung turned, arms crossed, voice cool. "Thanks. You can go now."

There was no warmth in her tone, no smile. Just a polite dismissal.

Jihoon gave her a small, uncertain nod. "Alright… goodnight, then," he said, still not sure what he'd done wrong.

He turned and walked off, scratching his head.

Behind him, Yoonjung stood motionless at the bus stop, chewing on her bottom lip, her foot tapping the ground in a rhythm that betrayed her frustration.

She wasn't furious. Not exactly.

Just… disappointed.

And embarrassed—because deep down, she'd actually hoped this clueless guy might pick up on her signals.

Back at home, the night was warmer and far less complicated.

The moment Jihoon stepped through the door, a blur of motion raced toward him.

"OPPA!" Jieun squealed, leaping into him like a missile of joy. "OPPA! Was it fun? Was it fun going to college?"

Jihoon laughed, letting her hang off his arm like a koala. "Fun? Yah, school is never fun. Especially not when I've got a little troublemaker like you at home— and a bigger, scarier one at school!"

Jieun blinked, curious. "Another troublemaker?"

"Mm-hmm," he said with a sigh, sinking onto the couch like a man who'd just returned from war. "This one doesn't throw tantrums like you… she throws glares."

He didn't say her name, but Yoonjung's image lingered in his mind—sharp eyes, proper posture, voice always one pitch colder than necessary.

The type of person who had "prestige" written in cursive across her forehead.

People like that always made Jihoon uncomfortable. He'd seen too many of them—people who acted like the world owed them something just because of their last name.

People like his aunt, Lee Boonjin.

That was why he moved out of the main family house in the first place—not just to escape their suffocating expectations, but to breathe freely without the constant stench of entitlement.

He didn't want to live in a world where power and pride sat at the dinner table.

"Ya!" Jieun huffed, shaking his arm indignantly. "You're saying I don't listen to Oppa? I'm super good, okay?! I even washed your socks yesterday!"

Jihoon gasped in mock horror. "Aigoo, I'm too tired to even lift a finger, and now you want me to praise you? I'm starving, Jieun-ah."

"So what are we eating tonight?" she asked, plopping down beside him with eager eyes.

Jihoon looked up dramatically, as if praying to the heavens. "Even ramen would do..."

"Baboya! Just call the restaurant and order jajangmyeon already," Jieun said, ruffling his hair like she was the older sibling.

"Deal!" Jihoon shot up and shouted toward the bathroom. "Two jajangmyeon and one sweet and sour pork, please!"

"Oh yeah!!" Jieun sprinted to the bedroom like she was winning a game show, already dialing their favorite takeout spot.

"Jieun-ah! Don't forget the sweet and sour pork!"

"OKAY, oppa~!" she sang back.

And in that simple, chaotic little home, Jihoon felt something settle in his chest. Whatever happened outside, this was still his safe zone. His reset button.

The following week, Jihoon and Yoonjung met daily to work on their "Michael meets Mozart" ceremony performance.

At first, things were smooth. As they crafted the classical section of the piece, there was a rare, almost fragile harmony between them.

They exchanged ideas calmly, respectfully—almost like colleagues.

But the peace didn't last.

The moment they shifted into composing the pop section, that truce crumbled like soggy cookies.

Yoonjung, ever the picture of grace and discipline, slowly began to lose her composure.

Day by day, her elegant facade cracked, chipped by Jihoon's relentless ideas and constant interruptions.

"You should do it this way."

"No, wait—what if we added a beat drop here?"

"Hold on, hold on, let me just redo this—"

At first, she tried to smile through it.

Then she tried ignoring him. But there was something about Jihoon's ability to provoke—so casual, so instinctive—that made it nearly impossible. Little did she know, she wasn't the only one who felt that way. Even people like Boa and Lee Sooman constantly fought the urge to hurl sheet music at his head.

Now, even she—a young lady raised on etiquette and high expectations—was finding it hard not to snap.

Jihoon, of course, remained blissfully oblivious. Little did he realize he possessed a rare talent for making people want to beat the crap out of him. Either way, he kept pushing, kept tossing out suggestions like a mad scientist testing boundaries—seeing just how far he could stretch her patience before it finally snapped.

[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, OS_PARCEIROS, Divine_Chesse and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]